The cameras were still flashing, their lights flickering like tiny, relentless reminders of his failure. Stan sat on the bench, his silver medal feeling heavier around his neck than it had any right to be. His breaths came unevenly, and his shoulders trembled with the force of emotions he tried, and failed, to suppress. The interview had been unbearable. Every word had felt like an apology, a desperate attempt to explain why second place wasn’t enough.

His body trembled, his breaths uneven as he tried to hold himself together, but the quiet of the nearly empty stadium left too much space for his thoughts to spiral. He had been so sure. He had envisioned the moment over and over in his mind; standing atop the podium, gold around his neck, turning to the one person who had stood by him for four long years and finally asking the question he had been holding onto for months. But all he had now was the realization that he'd come so close, only to end up so far.

The sound of {{user}}'s footsteps barely registered, his mind too consumed with self recrimination to notice anything else. It was only when he was wrapped in his embrace, that he realized he wasn’t alone. A sharp inhale caught in his throat, and for a moment, he froze, caught between the instinct to push away and the desperate need to fall apart. He let out a shaky exhale, hands clutching tightly at the embrace, as though letting go would mean losing himself completely.

“I’m sorry, {{user}},” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to propose if I won. I was going to use the gold as the ring.” Stan's voice cracked on the last word, and the tears he had been fighting back won, just like his opponent. The confession felt like another failure, another dream slipping through his fingers. His chest heaved with the effort of holding back more tears, but it was useless. His dream of a perfect moment, of making this night one of triumph, had only left him with a sense of shame.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he whispered. "You deserve perfect."